The European Front
by Anzac123
Summary: A World in Conflict FanFic about the battles between the Warsaw Pact and NATO. The story does jump around a little and you'll hear some familiar names along the way.
1. The Calm Before the Storm

"War is hell, but actual combat is a motherfucker."-Colonel Dave Hackworth

* * *

><p>"I don't like this." Sergeant First Class Hank William said as he crouched on the turret of his tank.<p>

"You're tanks are exposed out here. Makes easy targets for those red bastards." Commandant Jean-Pierre Roux observed as he slung his FAMAS Assault Rifle on his back. The American M-1 Abrams Main Battle Tank was dug into the reverse slop of a hill. Its large 105mm rifled gun barely cleared the row of shrubs planted by French school children a few years ago. Commandant Jean-Pierre looked down the shallow valley at a tree line about two thousand meters away. He knew that there were Soviet soldiers somewhere in those woods probably staring back at him. He shivered at the thought.

Sergeant First Class Hank thought the same thing. There had to be scores of Soviet infantry and armored vehicles in the woods. One of them had to have powerful field glasses and was probably surveying the hill. He hoped that they couldn't make out the squat, largely ominous profile of his tank. It was one of four prepared defensive positions dug by French engineers and a few French farmers. They didn't mind gutting their fields to house the tanks. They'd much rather have a ruined harvest than live in a Soviet occupied France.

"Those bastards must love this weather." Commandant Jean-Pierre said looking up. The sky was a dark gray and promised rain. That severely restricted their air cover making it that much easier for Ivan. The dark clouds hung about thirteen hundred feet above the ground. That meant whatever air support they could get would have just fix seconds to acquire their targets before having to pull up.

Sergeant First Class Hank jumped off the turret and hit the ground. He had to stop himself from stumbling down the hill. He liked being at eye level with people whenever they talked. It made things more personal. "What kind of air support can we expect, commandant?" Sergeant First Class Hank asked.

"Two or three A-10s plus some Mirage 5s. Some helicopters too. I'm not sure what kind though. Not much if you ask me, mon ami." Commandant Jean-Pierre said shaking his head. Both men looked down at the valley below. About two dozen Soviet tanks were still burning. Most of them were T-62s but there were a few T-80s mixed in with them.

"Just what kind of attack is Command expecting here?" Sergeant First Class Hank asked frowning. He didn't like this one bit now. The first Russian attack had been repulsed but only with heavy air support. The blackened and still burning remains of five NATO attack aircraft sat in the valley reminded him of how badly the Russians wanted those aircraft dead so they could sweep his meager force aside.

"Ceux gros bonnets aurait plus d'avions affectés à ce secteur si elles se battaient ici." Commandant Jean-Pierre muttered in French as he scraped the mud off his boot on the tread of the tank.

"Huh?" Sergeant First Class Hank asked.

"Nothing, ami. Now when you hear 'Zulu, Zulu, Zulu,' that means air support is five minutes out. The pilots asked me to tell you to take out any SAM vehicles and AA guns you see to make their job easier." Commandant Jean-Pierre said.

"Roger that. You should get to your trench with your men. I got a feeling things will be heating up soon. You know Ivan doesn't like to sit in one place for too long." Sergeant First Class Hank said holding out his hand.

"Oui, mon ami. Bonne chance." Commandant Jean-Pierre said giving him a warm handshake.

"Good luck to you too." Sergeant First Class Hank said remembering the term from their first encounter with the Soviets with Jean-Pierre. Commandant Jean-Pierre turned and started walking off to the trenches next to the tanks that were filled with French soldiers. Before he hopped in the trench Sergeant First Class Hank yelled, "We still doing the kill count?"

Commandant Jean-Pierre looked over his shoulder and yelled, "Of course, mon ami américain! I'm still winning you know!"

"Not for long you, Frenchie!" Sergeant First Class Hank yelled as he hopped back onto his Abrams. He couldn't lie; he respected Commandant Jean-Pierre a great bit. He'd gotten his ass out of some real bad situations and vice versa. They'd met in Germany during the Soviet attack on Ansbach. They held out for three days before having to retreat when a whole Soviet tank army was thrown their way. A lot of good men were lost in Ansbach. Men they desperately needed right now.

A Troop, 1st Squadron, 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment had once had fourteen tanks. Six of the originals were gone and they'd only gotten three replacements. Of those three replacements only one were left. They picked up the last Abrams from B Troop and incorporated it into A troop giving them a grand total of ten Abrams. All of them were damaged to one degree or another. They just didn't have the time nor the resources to conduct proper repairs. Sergeant First Class Hank's platoon leader had been killed during the Battle of Ansbach leaving him in command of the four tank platoon. His platoon was covering nearly a kilometer's worth of front.

Hunkered down in trenches and makeshift bunkers between his tanks were were men from the French Army's 3rd Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment, Alpha Company led by Commandant Jean-Pierre. His unit was a company on paper but in reality it was nothing more than three battered platoons. He counted his unit lucky. Some NATO units had been wiped out by the sudden Warsaw Pact assault in Germany. They fought valiantly in Germany but were still pushed back by the seemingly endless Red horde. Now they couldn't afford to be pushed back. The men were now fighting to defend not just their country, but their homes and families too.

Commandant Jean-Pierre surveyed the earthworks his men now took cover in. They were dug in deep. If he lived through this battle he would be sure to than the engineers and farmers that dug their protection. It looked as if it would survive Soviet artillery barrages. But only the real thing would let them know. The power of Russian artillery had come as a massive shock despite all the pre-war warning.

000

A Hungarian officer inched his way through the mud on his closer to the wood line. He wanted a better look at what he was going to be sending his tanks at. Two riflemen slowly crawled their way through the muck next to him. They both had their AK-63Es in hands and they were ready to use them. After fifteen grueling minutes the Hungarian officer finally got as close as he felt safe to the edge of the woods. He lifted up his binoculars and scanned the hill top. Not much there. He slowly scanned the face of the hill still seeing little. Wait. His attention caught something glimmering. Could it be the enemy? Yes! A French soldier judging by his FAMAS was playing with a small pocket mirror. What could he be doing? Was he really just sitting there out in the open messing around like there wasn't a war going on? He had a target for the artillery batteries stationed a few kilometers behind. Let's see how much fun the soldier had when 152mm shells started crashing around him. As he motioned for one of the soldiers with a bulky radio pack on his back to get closer he thought if they'd waste rounds on just one soldier. Hell they had more. Just as put the receiver to his ear his head cocked back and the back of his head exploded as a 7.62×51mm NATO round passed through.

000

"Un bâtard moins rouge à traiter." a French sniper said as he worked the bolt to his FR F2 Sniper Rifle two thousand meters away. _One less red bastard to worry about._

"Je pense que c'est un record?" his spotter said as he watched the two other enemy soldiers get up and sprint the opposite direction. _I think that is a record._

"Honnêtement, je ne se soucient pas de dossiers. Je veux juste ces enculés rouges hors de mon pays." The sniper said. _Honestly I don't care about records. I just want those red fuckers out of my country._

"Comme ne I. Nous sommes une étape plus près que je pense." The spotter said wiping the condensation from his spotter's scope. _As do I. We're one step closer than I guess._

"Pourtant, nous avons encore un million de plus quelques mesures à prendre." The sniper replied frowning. _Yet we still have a couple more million steps to take._

"Rappelez-vous mon ami, un voyage d'un million de miles commence par un pas." The spotter said trying to cheer his friend up. _Remember my friend; a journey of one million miles begins with one step_

"Oui, mon ami. Revenons à la tranchée. Nous devons dire le commandant sur notre rencontre. Dites Devante il a fait un appât grande. Je pense que les rouges sont de rabotage de déménager bientôt." The sniper said with a tired sigh. _Yes my friend. Let's get back to the trench. We must tell the commandant about our encounter. Tell devante he made great bait. I think the Reds are planning to move soon._

Without another word the two men got up from their camouflaged position and jogged towards the trenches.

000

A lone Mi-35 Hind hovered over the forest. Its pilots took extra care not to cross the tree line. This put them at risk to enemy SAMs, small arms fire, and it took them out of the range of their own SAMS and AA guns.

"Those NATO dogs must love this weather!" The colonel of the 7th Honor Guards Tank Regiment yelled over the sound of the rotors and looking up at the low clouds. "Their cursed airplanes swoop in below the clouds under our radar coverage and blow us to hell before we can do anything about it."

"How bad has your unit been hit?" General Vladimir Alexandrov asked.

"Look for yourself, comrade." The colonel almost spit. Twenty-four tanks, well the charred remains of them, sat burning in a shallow valley. "That American low-level attacker did this-they call it the Thunderbolt. Our men call it the Devil's Cross. It looks much like a Eastern Orthodox Cross when you look at it from below."

"But did you not shoot three of these aircraft down yesterday?" General Vladimir asked.

"That is true. What you probably didn't hear is that only one of my six gun vehicles survived the effort. The last vehicle got both. Private Pavel Ilyich I believe. I've recommended him for the Red Banner. It will be posthumous though."

"I thought you said he destroyed the Thunderbolts?" General Vladimir asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh he did. Then a damn French jet came out of the clouds and he took that one out too. Well just look for yourself." The colonel said as he handed him a pair of binoculars.

General Vladimir took them and scanned the area were the wreckages of four ZSU-30s. One of them had the wreckage of a French Mirage, he couldn't tell which version, smashed into it. This had probably been on purpose. The French pilot most likely wanted to kill a few more Soviets before he died. A Hungarian sergeant sitting in the troop bay tapped on the colonel's shoulder and handed him a radio headset. He listened intensely for three minutes before lowering the headset.

"Tell the pilot to take us to the command bunker." The colonel told the sergeant. He nodded and spoke into his own headset. It took them ten minutes to get to the command bunker. As they hopped out the colonel motioned towards the bunker and said, "Ten minutes, comrade. Will you join me?"

The command bunker was nothing new to General Vladimir. He'd been in dozens all along the front. This one, like all the others, was constructed of logs with a few meters of earth tossed on it. Thirty men were crammed into the cramped area along with a wide array of communication equipment. This was the least amount of equipment and men needed to manage a three regiment attack; two Russian and one Hungarian. Two regiments would head in first, a Russian and the Hungarian one, to blow a gap in NATO's defenses before the reserve Russian regiment would rush through the gap and wreak havoc in the enemy's rear.

General Vladimir was just an observer in the bunker. He watched at how efficient all of the men seemed to move. The pre-war training seemed to have paid off. He watched the three regiment commanders converse quietly before being interrupted by their artillery chief. They exchanged a few brief words before the artillery chief walked over to bright red phone. He picked up the receiver, held it to his ear, and said two words.

"Commence firing."

It didn't take long for the sound to reach them. The sound of every gun the division owned plus two additional batteries from the tank division spoke as one, massive, booming voice. It sounded like a titanic thunderclap across the valley. The shells streaked towards the valley and hill in wide arcs. The first few struck short but the rounds began to slowly creep towards the hill. As with most battles on the European Front of World War 3, NATO was once again on the defensive.


	2. First Blows

"Holy shit, Sarge. I think Ivan really doesn't like us." Sergeant Timothy Carlos, the tank's loader, said as he pulled his hatch down tight.

"No, Timmy. I just think Ivan doesn't like you." Sergeant First Class Hank said with a sly grin. He heard his loader laugh quietly to himself. Sergeant First Class Hank adjusted his helmet and put the microphone a bit closer to his mouth. He glanced out of each of the view ports built into his commander's cupola. The Abram's thick armor kept out most of the noise but the sheer impact of the rounds was enough to rock the 60 something ton tank. Each man thought about how much power it would take to rock something this big. That meant Ivan was hitting them with their big guns. That was how one of their lieutenants had bought the farm. It was a one-in-a-thousand shot from a Soviet heavy gun that landed right on top of the turret and burrowed through the thinner top armor to explode inside the tank.

Sergeant First Class Hank looked to the right and left of him at the French soldiers cowering in their foxholes. He could only imagine what they were feeling; probably a mixture of fear and anger. Fear from being plowed into the ground by Soviet artillery and hatred from the thought that the Soviets were destroying _their_ country. Sergeant First Class Hank had complete faith in the French soldiers on both sides of him. He knew when the time came; those men would willingly die for France. _But wasn't it Paton who said, "Wars are not won by you dying for your country. It is by making the other bastard die for his." _Deep down though he knew that if it was up to Commandant Jean-Pierre, a lot of Soviets would be dying for their country.

000

"Brilliant fire plan, Comrade General. Shall we follow up?" General Vladimir said calmly. A screaming roar that could only be Su-25s passed overhead. "I believe your air support has arrived."

Four Soviet ground attack aircraft banked right before beginning to turn left to align themselves with the NATO lines to drop their loads of napalm. It was quite ironic that they were using napalm in this war considering it was a Yankee invention. Well even Americans have their uses. A missile leapt up from the NATO lines and blotted one of the Su-25s out of the sky in an orange fireball.

The colonel frowned as two other Su-25s were shot down before they dropped their loads. The last dropped its canisters of napalm but missed its target. "Order the tanks and BMPs to prepare to move. The ground advance commences in one minute."

General Vladimir flinched when he heard the deafening roar of five batteries of mobile missile launchers ripple fire their weapons in a single sheet of flame. It had been a while since he'd heard the fire of so many rockets. He did remember what the payloads of the rockets would be. Considering they were covering a ground assault half of the rockets would be high explosive while the other half was smoke. The tactic worked moderately well against the Mujahedeen in Afghanistan. But they were a long way from Afghanistan and their enemy was armed with more than a few AKs and RPGs. General Vladimir said a quick prayer for the troops embarking towards the NATO lines and turned his attention to the map laid out on the table in front of him.

000

Forty rockets landed in Sergeant First Class Hank's sector and twenty or so in the valley below him. The impact of the rockets rattled his teeth. All it took was one of those rockets to get lucky and land on his tank and _boom,_ the war would be over for him. He could here shrapnel pinging off his tank's armor but that wasn't what worried him. A thick blanket of white smoke began to obscure the valley below his men. That meant Ivan was coming.

"Tom, activate the thermal sights." Sergeant First Class Hank said to Staff Sergeant Thomas Henkel, the tank's gunner, trying to keep his voice as calm as he could.

"Roger that, sir." S/Sgt. Thomas said as he flipped a switch. Everything turned black with hot spots standing out as a bright white.

"_Steel Dragons this is Six._" The troop commander called in over the command circuit. "_Seems like Ivan decided its time to start things up again. Here we go again._" Six's voice was terse. Sergeant First Class Hank could hear the worry in his voice. He knew that this was going to be a hard fought battle.

"_Steel Dragons sign off."_ Sergeant First Class Hank ordered.

"_Steel Dragon Two here. A bit shaken up but we're here."_

"_Steel Dragon Three is A'okay."_

"_Steel Dragon Four is ready to rock and roll, sir!"_

"_Steel Dragon Five is armed and ready."_

Sergeant First Class Hank sighed with relief as the last tank checked in. That meant they all survived the artillery barrage. That means the holes the engineers and farmers had dug for their tanks had done the job. He'd have to buy them a drink if he got out of this one alive.

_All tanks you have permission to engage at will. I repeat: engage at will. May God be with you all."_

Sergeant First Class Hank's body tensed up. No more orders were needed. They knew what they had to do. It was all up to them now.

"Enemy in view." S/Sgt. Thomas said looking through his sight. The thermal imaging could penetrate the full mile of smoke cover with ease. Luck was on their side too. A light wind was blowing the smoke to the east right back in the Soviets faces.

Sergeant First Class took a long deep breath and did what he was trained to do.

"Target tank! One o'clock! SABOT! SHOOT!"

S/Sgt. Thomas trained the big 120mm gun right and centered the sight reticule on the nearest Soviet tank. His thumbs depressed the laser button and a thin inferred beam of light bounced off the target. The range display came up on his sight. Exactly 1200 meters. The fire control computer plotted the incoming speed of the Soviet tank and the distance as it elevated the main gun. The computer measured wind speed and direction, air temperature, humidity, and the tank's own shells. All S/Sgt. Thomas had to do was place the target in the center of the sights and the computer did all the work in two seconds. S/Sgt. Thomas jammed his index fingers on the trigger and grunted as the main gun roared in reply.

The forty foot muzzle blast disintegrated the shrubs planted in front of the Abrams. The 105mm gun jerked back in recoil ejecting the spent aluminum casing out the back. The shell came apart in mid-air to reveal a 40mm tungsten dart traveling at nearly a mile a second. The Soviet tank commander only saw the muzzle flash before his life turned into a living Hell.

The dart covered the distance in exactly one second and struck the Soviet T-80 at the base of the gun turret. Inside the tank, the autoloader was just ramming a shell into the cannon when the 40mm tungsten dart burned through the protective steel. The tank went up like a M80 placed under a plastic tank. The turret flew thirty feet up in the air and flames erupted from all the opening in the tank.

"That's a kill!" Sergeant First Class Hank yelled. Before they could celebrate another tank came into view; one of the older T-62s. "Target tank! Twelve o'clock! SABOT! SHOOT!"

The Hungarian tank and the American tank fired at the exact same time. However the Hungarian's round missed the Abrams by two meters. The Hungarian tank crew was not that lucky. The dart grazed the T-62's main gun and hit the turret. It sliced through the thick armor like a hot knife through butter. Flames erupted out of the commander's hatch as the tank stopped dead in its tracks.

"Time to move. Straight back to alternate one." Sergeant First Class Hank said.

The driver, Sergeant Nicholas Swanson, already had reverse engaged and was twisting hard on the throttle control. The tank sped backwards then turned right and headed towards the second prepared position.

000

General Vladimir was now at the wood line with several other officers. They were all crunched down and they all had AK-74Us in case those NATO pigs decided to check up on them. Even from their closer proximity to the battlefield, they couldn't see shit. The smoke that they'd deployed was now blowing back in their faces. This portion of the battle would be won by the superior sergeants, captains, and lieutenants the Warsaw Pact forces had. "Superior." General Vladimir grunted. "Moya zadnitsa."

"Colonel Orlovsky, may my men join the battle." A young man said. By his uniform and blue beret General Vladimir could tell he was a captain in the VDV. Then General Vladimir realized that the man he was talking to him was the Hero of Western Germany; Colonel Vladimir Orlovsky. For the first time General Vladimir thought about how him and the famous colonel had the same first name.

"Give the tanks a few more minutes to break through the NATO defenses. Then we will deploy your men." Colonel Orlovsky said.

"But, colonel. My BTRs will be able to greatly aide the tanks with clearing out the infantry."

"Captain Nikolai Malashenko you and your men will be deployed when I see fit. Do you understand?" Colonel Vladimir said with a stern face. A look of hurt appeared on Captain Malashenko's face for but a split second before it disappeared.

"Sir, yes, sir uncle. My men will be mounted in their vehicles when the time comes." Captain Malashenko said sounding disgusted.

"Good. You are relived. Go back to your men." Colonel Orlovsky said as he returned to trying to see through the thick smoke with a pair of binoculars.

"For the glory of the Soviet Union!" Captain Malashenko barked as he saluted. He turned around and disappeared into the woods.

"Son?" General Vladimir asked the colonel.

"Niyet. My son is in the Air Force. That was my nephew." Colonel Orlovsky said not taking his eyes away from the binoculars.

"He seems dedicated to both the State and this war. He will win us many battles." General Vladimir said nodding.

"He will lose us many good soldiers." Colonel Orlovsky muttered coldly.

000

Sergeant First Class Hank's tank was at the alternate position in forty-five seconds flat. It was almost the same as the other. The only difference was that they were actually on top of the hill and they were dug in deeper. Through the thermal he could now see infantry; lots of them. They ran out of their APCs and ran ahead into a battlefield where shrapnel filled the air in every increasing quantities as both French and American artillery tried to stem the Red tide.

"Target tank! Three o'clock! This one has a few antennas people! SABOT! SHOOT!" Sergeant First Class Hank barked. The T-80 that lumbered out of the woods had several antennas protruding out of the dome shaped turret. It had to be either a company or battalion commander's tank and he wasn't going to let it live long.

"I got it." Staff Sergeant Thomas muttered. The tank was coming right at them. He jerked the trigger and swore not a split second later. The Soviet tank jerked left causing the SABOT to miss its engine compartment by a few inches.

"Savvy son of a bitch. HEAT! SHOOT!" Sergeant First Class Hank said keeping a close eye on the Soviet command vehicle.

"HEAT loaded!" Sergeant Timothy reported as he rammed the High Explosive Anti-Tank shell into the breach.

"This bastard isn't gonna dodge this one!" Staff Sergeant Thomas yelled. He watched the tank jerk left then right then left again. "One more time. Come on. One more time." Staff Sergeant Thomas pleaded as he tried to predict the tank's next movement. He jammed his thumbs on the trigger as hard as he could and hoped his aim was true. The tank jumped at the recoil and the spent round _clanged _off the turret's wall.

Staff Sergeant Thomas' aim could not have been any better. The tandem charge warhead made contact with the tank a little to the left of the tank's turret. The Soviet crew had no hope of survival as the turret was carried fifty feet into the air on a fireball.

"That's a kill!" First Sergeant Hank roared. The smile on his face disappeared as soon as he heard the call on the radio.

"_Our line is in danger of breaking!__** ZULU, ZULU, ZULU!" **_

000

The trench on top of the hill was a bit more fortified than the one his men formerly occupied at the bottom. Their new position also gave them a good view of the invaders below. Commandant Jean-Pierre kept his head down as a fresh wave of artillery rounds churned up the ground all around the trench. As soon as the barrage ended he looked down the hill. When he peaked up he saw an untold number of Soviet tanks and infantry coming at his position. A MILAN anti-tank missile leapt from one of the trenches and killed a Soviet tank. A bullet cracked past his head making him flinch. Soviet infantry were now making their way up the hill. A BMP-2 exploded as one of the American tanks hit it killing half a dozen Soviets in the process. Commandant Pierre took aim with his FAMAS and fired several rounds. He hit one Soviet who took a round in the shoulder, spun around, and took another in the back of the head putting him down for good. Another BMP roared up the hill shrugging off their small arm fire like it was nothing.

"Hit it with a MILAN! Hit it with a MILAN!" Commandant Jean-Pierre shouted frantically. Commandant Jean-Pierre felt a _thump _as someone fired the antitank rocket somewhere to his left. The missile hugged the ground and hit the BMP head on. The Soviet infantry fighting vehicle came to an abrupt halt and started smoking. Two hatches popped open and two men tried to scurry out. One had his head blown off as soon as his head popped out. The other lasted a few seconds longer but was quickly cut down. Soviet infantry was now only fifty meters from his position. If they got closer they'd easily overwhelm his men.

A soldier manning a FN MAG 7.62mm machine gun took a hit in the neck and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. He just lay there bleeding profusely and holding his neck with mud covered hands.

"Medic!" Commandant Pierre yelled as he manned the MAG. He started raking the incoming Soviet troops with a wall of lead. Rounds kicked up the dirt in front of him but he paid no mind to it. One of the Soviets stood up and cocked his hand back to throw something. Commandant Pierre hit him dead center in the chest with a four round burst leaving a good sized hole and sending the soldier tumbling backwards. A bullet grazed the MAG lodging fragments in his chest. Commandant Pierre ignored the burning and kept shooting. He went through four hundred rounds and killed two dozen Soviets before a RPG exploded right in front of him. The concussion knocked him on his back in a dazed state. He just looked up at the sky. The clouds blocked out the sun and a light drizzle started. The rain felt cool against his hot face. He wiped a hand across his grime covered face and just lay there. A soldier with a boyish face appeared over him snapping his fingers in front his eyes. His lips moved but he couldn't hear what he was saying. All he heard was a loud ringing sound. He tried to put a name to the face he shook his head to try to stop the ringing.

Colonel Gérard Ranard? No. His son Caporal Alain Ranard? Yes that was it. It was all coming back to him. The man, no kid, was only seventeen. He carried around a G-3 because he was a designated marksman. Commandant Jean-Pierre had fought with, Caporal Alain's father in Ansbach. That was where he died too. When the company was pulling out of the city under the cover of darkness they were ambushed by two regiments of Soviet paratroopers who had infiltrated their lines. His father, Colonel Gérard Ranard, was killed during the opening seconds of the ambush when dozens of RPGs broke the silence of the night and tore through his men. He remembered the moment so fondly because moments before the ambush Colonel Ranard told him something on the radio.

"_Commandant, something is wrong here."_

After that the first barrage of RPGs hit and Colonel Gérard was turned into large chunks of meat. Commandant Jean-Pierre got his revenge tough. After a majority of the elite Soviet paratroopers were killed and the prisoners rounded up, he had them all executed. The Supreme Allied Commander Europe, SAUCER, personally admonished him for that but he was not reprimanded.

Caporal Alain's eyes were frantic but his face was as emotionless as a slab of marble. Slowly Commandant Jean-Pierre's hearing began coming back.

"-et up! Come on! The Soviets are getting closer!"

Commandant Jean-Pierre blinked a few times and tried to make sense of the words. He got what he was saying pretty well when a Russian RGN grenade landed in his lap. Caporal Alain scooped up the grenade without hesitation and tossed it back. He fired off a few rounds from his G-3 and turned his attention back to Commandant Jean-Pierre.

"You're bleeding, commandant." Caporal Alain said as he started unbuttoning Commandant's Jean-Pierre's uniform jacket and started propping his chest. The muscle shirt he wore underneath was soaked with blood.

"I'm okay." Commandant Jean-Pierre insisted as he brushed the younger man's hand away and buttoned his shirt back up. He could taste blood in his mouth as he squatted. "Where is my rifle?"

Caporal Alain picked Commandant Jean-Pierre's FAMAS off the ground and dusted some mud off before handing it to him.

"Thank you." Commandant Jean-Pierre said patting the younger man on the shoulder. He just nodded and stood up to shoot at the Soviets.

He yelped as a Soviet lunged into the trench pinning Caporal Alain to the other side of the trench with a bayonet attached to an AK-74. Commandant fired a three round burst into the Soviet's head making it explode like a watermelon. He jumped over the body of the soldier who had been shot in the neck before and went to unpin Caporal Alain. He raised his G-3 with his right hand and fired several rounds. Commandant Jean-Pierre ducked as bullets cracked past his head. Two Soviets that tried to jump into the trench tumbled in as lifeless bodies.

"Good shot, Alain." Commandant Jean-Pierre said as he pulled the bayonet out of Caporal Alain's left shoulder. He grimaced but then grinned.

"I think I dislocated my shoulder." He said with a halfhearted smile. Commandant Jean-Pierre ordered two soldiers to care for the man who just saved his life and turned back to the MAG. The machine gun was now useless. The barrel was bent at a ninety degree angle making it inoperable. He moved up to the firing line just in time to catch a Soviet trying to jump into the trench. Without thinking he squeezed the trigger to his FAMAS and jerked up. The Soviet was peppered with 5.56mm rounds all the way from his crotch to his neck. The now dead Soviet's body went rigid when he hit the ground discharging a round from his AK-74. The 5.45mm round hit one of the soldiers bandaging Caporal Alain right in the chest killing him instantly and sending a splash of blood across the wounded Caporal.

More Soviets with bayonets fixed were running bent over right at him. He took aim with his FAMAS and squeezed the trigger.

_Click, click, click. _Fuck.


End file.
